Remember the Fallen
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: Who were the brave and noble ones who died on the fields of Pelennor? This is the story of those who died but whose bravery should never be forgotten. Book-verse, rated T for violence and  possible  language.
1. Arnor: Farewell to Rivendell

**(AN: Peter Jackson really said 'f-you' to the people of Gondor, Rohan and Arnor who died at the Battle of Pelennor Fields by having an army of invincible ghosts show up to kill everybody, which _NEVER_ happened in the book. All the Dead Men of Dunharrow did was route the Corsairs from their ships, and _then_ they were dismissed. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my ode to all those who died at the Battle of Pelennor Fields, whose names were not important enough to be remembered by Peter Jackson.)**

**(Also, this is kind of an exercise, at least literary, for me. It's easy to get caught up in the 'splendor' of battle, charging through with your sword in hand, light at your back and whatnot. But the reality is that people die in battle, and it is bloody and painful. That's something also I wish to capture in my literature as far as this story is concerned.)**

**(Enjoy)**

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><p><strong>Farewell to Rivendell<strong>

_The morning of February the 20th, 3019 T.A._

Thirty hooded Men rode into the stables of Imladris. Their leader, the Dunadan Halbarad, dismounted from off his horse and made his way up the steps to where he was being expected. It was dark, the morning was still a great ways away. All of Imladris, which Men call Rivendell, was illuminated with soft, glowing lamps. He needed them not, for even in the dark, the keen eyes of this Dunadan warrior could see almost as far in the day.

The one who met him at the top of the steps was one that Halbarad knew very well. Older than the stones of Fornost Erain, or even the colossal fortresses of Gondor, here was one who was, all at once, as ancient as two ages and a half, and yet as near to him, Halbarad, as if he were an uncle. For such was Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell and brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the father of the Dunedain.

"_Mae govannen_, Lord Elrond," Halbarad greeted, using the language of the Eldar. Out of respect, he inclined his head slightly. Elrond repeated the gesture.

"How many?" he asked.

"Thirty," Halbarad returned. It was hardly enough, that much he knew. Something was amiss in the Shire, ever since a whole sortie had abandoned the watch on the borders and on Tyrn Gorthad late last year. The Dunedain needed to remain here, in their ancient land. Yet the summons had come: 'Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dunedain ride to him in Rohan!'

Elrond's face fell in realization. This would not be enough, not against the millions that Sauron was surely bringing to bear down against Gondor and her allies in the South, to say nothing of what he would do here in the North. Already it seemed that the days of Gondor were numbered, and with them, the last defense of the North-lands would be gone.

"You must go now," Elrond said. "To the land called Rohan. Go in haste! Find Aragorn, son of Arathorn, your lord and kin. Tell him that the days are short. If he is in haste, remember the words of the Seer..." His voice trailed off in thought, or perhaps memory. As herald and commander, he remembered how vividly the tall lord of Minas Ithil raged about the traitors and how they had defied him.

He furthermore remembered the words spoken in the days of Arvedui, the last lord of the Dunedain to bear the title 'King of Arnor', if only of one-third of Arnor. The time of that prophecy was now upon the Men of the West, for good or for ill.

Elrond turned aside to those who had gathered behind them, the elves of his household, all of them lords of renown, some greater some smaller, but all of them worthy warriors in their own right.

"Who now shall go forth to war with the King of Men?" Elrond asked.

"I shall," Elladan said.

"So shall I," added his brother, Elrohir.

"Then go, my sons," he said. "Gather your weapons and armor and prepare to ride forth for war."

They both nodded and departed, off to retrieve their gears of war. Halbarad turned to Elrond and nodded curtly, then departed in turn. He himself had to return to his Men and inform them that they would not be staying over-long here in Imladris. Of course, that was always a disappointment. Even for the Dunedain, Rivendell was a place they enjoyed visiting.

For Halbarad, at least, it was a memory both pleasant and sorrowful. It was pleasant for him to be in a place untouched by the evil that had taken the world, the evil that he guarded against vigilantly for many years. It gave him a kind of guilty pleasure, unlike the Periannath, the Halflings, that he could see a place where the vigilance of Men had, in a very small manner, contributed to its safety and the inhabitants were grateful for it.

But that joy was mixed with sorrow as well. For he knew that, eventually, it would all come to ruin. Just as Fornost Erain, Amon Sul and, to a relative degree, Annuminas, the once great cities of Arnor, now lay in ruins, so too would Rivendell one day fall, and one day soon. For the Elves knew that the Shadow was gathering strength outside the beauty of their lands; Elrond referred to it as 'the long defeat.' There seemed to be no hope left for the race of Men: Gondor, the last shield against Mordor, was limping towards its doom on one foot. The strength of Arnor was reduced to a few straggling survivors of a once great and noble kingdom, ones that, unlike their liege-lord, could not stand before the might of the Ringwraiths.

Halbarad sighed, regretting the foolishness of Arvedui and of so many of the Dunedain of Arnor before him. By their actions, the time of Arnor had come to an end. In dangerous realization, he empathized with the King's Men of ancient Numenor, those who regretted the decision of Elros Tar-Minyatur to accept the "Doom of Man."

As he passed down the stairs, he saw a figure appear from out of the shadows. It appeared only for a moment, smiled at him, and then with a wave of hair that looked like midnight upon the waters of the Baranduin, turned and walked down the corridor. Halbarad walked after the figure, until it reached a place where there stood a great monument, shaped in the likeness of Elian, the Queen of Arnor and wife of Isildur. In her arms was a great sheet, upon which, symbolically, she passed on the heirlooms of Isildur to her son Valandil, and then from father to son down to Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Upon the sheet, carved from the same stone as the statue, was a great thing like a spear wrapped in a black cloth.

Before the statue stood a woman, the likeness of Luthien Tinuviel returned from the dead.

"My lady!" Halbarad said, kneeling before she who would soon be his queen.

"The days are short indeed," Arwen restated. Her gaze was always to the south, as it had been since December of last year. For when one's heart is separated by distance, any little space of time passes slowly. "Either our hope cometh, or all hopes end."

Halbarad kept his head low, but he agreed in his heart. There was no second chance for what was to happen, what was to come in this war against Sauron.

"Give my best wishes to my lord," she said. "And this." She lifted the black-swathed thing from off the statue and handed it to Halbarad, who took it in both hands. He bowed again, then returned to the horses. The sons of Elrond would likely be finished by now, preparing their horses and would, at this moment, be ready to ride. There would be no time to enjoy the beauty of Imladris, so he mounted his horse, assembled his thirty Dunedain, and made ready to leave.

"_Namarie, Elessar_." Arwen breathed, her eyes looking out into the South.

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><p><strong>(AN: What do you think, so far?)<strong>

**(The name 'Elian' is from _Last Alliance_, my made-up name for Isildur's wife. Everything else you may see in this story is Tolkien's, and I don't claim ownership over that epicness.)**


	2. Gondor: United We Stand

**(AN: Here we get to meet several characters that you've never quite met or remembered, unless you've read the book a _LOT_. I've tried, very difficulty, I might add, to make the main Gondorian characters [for this chapter is, obviously, about Gondor] as unique as possible, with their own kind of personalities and reasons for being part of the War of the Ring. That much is going to be portrayed in this chapter. I know, not the quickest of starts, but I have a lot of introductions to make in a very short amount of time, so please bear through.)**

**(Some of the names, however, are ones that I came up with, for obvious reasons that you shall soon see)**

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><p><strong>United We Stand<strong>

_February 26th, 3019 T.A._

Edhellond was not any city of great antiquity. Certainly it did not compare with Minas Tirith, or even Dol Amroth, which was much closer. However, it served as the center of the realm of Gondor as it was now. For those who were farther west of the Anduin, this city served as a common-place for the southwestern fiefdoms of Gondor.

In a hall of white stone, with great pillars of obsidian carved in imitation of the fashion of ancient Numenor, were many of the lords of Gondor gathered in council around a great table of stone. At the head was the eldest member of the group: Forlong the Fat, Lord of Lossarnach. A huge man with broad shoulders and massive girth, with long hair and beard like a Dwarf that was losing what dark color there had once been. At his right sat the host, Imrahil of Dol Amroth: fair-haired with sea-gray eyes and of noble-bearing. At Forlong's left sat two young men, with dark skin and keen eyes in their faces. These were Duilin and Derufin, representatives of their father Duinhir the Tall, lord of Morthond. Gathered also were Golasgil of Anfalas, Dervorin of Ringlo Vale, Laromir of Ethir and Durbrand of Lamedon.

From Pinnath Gelin was the youngest lord present at the meeting. Dark-haired and fair-faced, he was clad, not in black like Forlong or blue like Imrahil, but in green. His eyes were blue, like the waters of the Great Sea, and his face was untouched by the stubble of beard. This was Hirluin, lord of Pinnath Gelin, and every eligible maiden in the southern fiefdoms dreamed to be the lady of Pinnath Gelin. Yet for all his youth, brash and careless demeanor, he was as true a son of Gondor as any of these gray-beards assembled.

"My lords," Forlong began. "We have gathered here to renew the oaths of honor we owe to the Steward of Gondor."

Many nodded in grim, knowing silence, but two sighed in weary disbelief.

"Our lands owe their safety and prosperity," Forlong said. "To the valiant defense of the people of Minas Tirith. I move that we owe Denethor our continued allegiance."

"I agree!" Imrahil added.

At this, Durbrand stood forth from his chair. "I see not why we are in any great debt to the lord of Gondor. Our own lands are far flung from the troubles of Minas Tirith. While Lord Forlong, ever at the back of Minas Tirith, can feel _some_ kind of obligation to the Steward, we in Lamedon feel no such duty. The Ered Nimrais protect us from the East wind."

"But if Minas Tirith falls," Imrahil stated. "Who shall stand before the might of the Black Land?"

"Why should _you_ care?" Laromir asked the prince of Dol Amroth. "Your island is well-protected."

"Not from the allies of Mordor," Imrahil added. "Our great rivers offer only lanes to the passage of the Enemy's ships. The Men of Umbar, the Black Numenoreans, have always been at his command. Should he call them into service once more, our valleys and our kingdoms will mean _nothing_!"

"I think you over-estimate the power of the Black Land," Durbrand said.

At length, young Hirluin spoke forth.

"Great sires," he said. "Whether the might of the Black Land is enough to strike our cities or no matters not. Our allegiance lies to the Tree of Gondor!"

"A dead tree!' Durbrand stated. "You are young, my lord, be not ruled by the foolish idleness that so often attends to youth. The White Tree is dead! Nobody believes the King could return. Pah! _He_'s probably dead too, the last son of Arvedui: mauled by Orcs in the war against Angmar thousands of years ago, then tossed into some ditch on the side of the road!"

"Have you so little faith in the blood of the Dunedain?" Duilin asked.

"I'm afraid my lord Durbrand is right," Laromir said. "The kings of old were foolish: Earnur departed without an heir, and even _if_ the People of Gondor would accept an Arnorian prince as the heir of Isildur, that line was indeed broken years ago. It is folly to believe that the last scion of Arnor was somehow kept alive when all of that land was laid to waste by the armies of Angmar."

"Besides," Durbrand laughingly said. "That was thousands of years ago. Even _if_ he was not killed as a child, the line of Arnor is surely dead by now."

"And where, pray tell," Golasgil asked. "Does that leave us now? We cannot change the mistakes of the past. Our only mastery is over what we are now given."

"You speak truth, my lord." Forlong bowed with honor in the direction of the lord of Anfalas.

"My lords," Dervorin spoke forth at last. "I beg your patience with me for a moment. If it is true, that our purpose is to reassess our allegiance to the Steward of Gondor, why is there no representative here present? Where is Boromir, captain of Gondor? Or, if not him, why not his brother? Both are great men, worthy men of renown, who _should_ be here to speak on behalf of the people of Minas Tirith."

"It has been almost a year," Imrahil said. "Since word reached Dol Amroth that Boromir, son of Denethor, had departed from Minas Tirith into the North. He has not returned since. I, as a strong and worthy friend of the Steward, and his brother-in-law by way of marriage, shall speak in behalf of both Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth."

"You can't do that!" Durbrand stated. "That goes against the treaty!"

"He's right," Laromir added. "It could be construed as Dol Amroth claiming sovereignty over Minas Tirith!"

"I do not wish for sovereignty," Imrahil added. "Over any nation other than my own. I speak for Denethor by reason of our familiar bond, nothing more."

"Wish or not," Laromir stated. "What you have done could be misrepresented. The others could lay claim to whatever fief they wish!"

"Our father is a noble man!" Derufin stated angrily, standing up from his table. "He has served the Steward for decades. I, the representative of my father, shall not let the lord of Ethir besmirch his honorable name with these baseless accusations!"

"I agree!" Duilin added, standing up as well.

"Gentlemen!" Forlong interjected. "Let us please return to the argument at hand!" They slowly quieted down and returned to their seats.

"Our allegiance is to the king of Gondor," Durbrand restated. "The King is no more, therefore our allegiance to Gondor is done. I move that we disperse and look to our own borders."

"Nay!" Hirluin interjected. "Our loyalty is to the _people_ of Gondor. Ever they have kept us safe from danger, we owe them that much, if not anything else."

"Ours is no longer the lot of Minas Tirith," Laromir of Ethir said.

"Enough!" Forlong roared. "This is getting us nowhere. We must wait for a proper envoy from Minas Tirith to speak here on behalf of the Steward."

"And what if that doesn't happen?" Durbrand asked. "What if the Beacons are lit while we wait for an envoy?"

Forlong sighed. If the Beacons of Gondor were lit, and that was more than likely, Minas Tirith would need all the help it could get. But what great force could they muster, when the lords of Gondor were ready to forsake her Steward and strike out on their own?

"Until a proper gathering is summoned, with a representative from the White City present," Forlong concluded. "Our oaths of fealty stand as they have stood for thousands of years."

With stifled grumbling, the meeting was at last adjourned. As they began leaving, Hirluin approached the lord of Lossarnach.

"Thank you, my lord," he nodded.

"For what?"

"Your levelheadedness," he replied. "Without you, this meeting would have turned to chaos in a very short time."

"A very wise young man once told me," Forlong stated. "That the Nameless One of the East would find Gondor an easier target to pick us off one by one, in conflict with each other, rather than all united against him."

Hirluin agreed, then departed to speak with Duinhir's sons. Forlong, meanwhile, was uneasy about the future. If the vassals of Gondor were ready to turn tail and leave the steward of their liege-lord, it would be nothing short of treason. Of course, the opposing side would argue that treason could not be construed with Minas Tirith in ruins and no King upon the throne of Gondor. Now, it seemed, was the darkest hour for the people of Gondor.

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><p><strong>(AN: Yeah, long time coming with this chapter.)<strong>

**(What thinkest thou thus far concerning this tale?)**


	3. Rohan: Aglarond

**(AN: Here is the third part of the story. As you can see, I am telling three distinct story-lines whose end is the same: the fields of Pelennor before the walls of the White City. A little something new I'm trying.)**

**(Thank you for the reviews. Yes, even in the book, the armies of the southern fiefdoms of Gondor were not very large, and some even came without their leaders. This would make one see that, whether by threats to their own borders or through a lack of loyalty to Minas Tirith, not all of the vassals came to Denethor's aid.)**

**(Here's a different story, and a look into a different culture, as well as cameos by four more familiar faces from the trilogy)**

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><p><strong>Aglarond<strong>

_Early morning, March 3rd, 3019 T.A._

It was past the hour of midnight, yet they could stop for nothing. The attack of the Dunlendings had routed the defenders of the Westfold, and now all were fleeing for their lives from another threat, an even greater threat than all of the Wildmen come upon them: an army of orcs from Isengard had descended upon the Westfold.

Grimbold, spear-thain of the lord Erkenbrand, was leading his company as far away from the fords of Isen, and the encroaching enemy, as they could. These were no soldiers, like the royal guards of Edoras, but farmers and horsemen, who would come to the aid of their lord and land in time of need. Good, honorable men, the lot of them, but they were seasoned by years of peace, not war. The foul folk of Isengard, orcs, Dunlendings and these black goblin-men, lived only to kill.

So it was, during the fight, that Grimbold's division had been routed and was now fleeing the battle. The fords were now vanished in the darkness of the night. Before them, the bones of the Ered Nimrais were cloaked in clouds. A storm had broken upon the northern borders of the mountains. In the east, night was at its thickest, though at the edge of the horizon, there could be seen a dark shadow crawling slowly across the land. What dwimmer-craft of Isengard's making this could be, none of them could guess, not even Grimbold the Mighty.

In the West, a tiny spot was growing. It shone white, like a bright star hovering just above the land at the bottom-most edge of the horizon. As they rode on, it grew larger and brighter, until the whole company had halted, fear behind and wonder before, to see this sight.

"Look, sire!" one of the men shouted, pointing at the white figure. "Methinks that's our king's horse, the one that disappeared many months ago!"

Grimbold nodded. Yet he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as the White Rider approached. He now checked his horse and the light seemed to lessen, so they could see the rider. It was an old man, robed all in white, with a staff of white wood in his hand, astride a white stallion that glowed like the Moon upon the plains.

"Stay your blade, captain!" the White Rider said. "I am not Saruman!"

"Who are you?" Grimbold returned.

"Answers come later, I am in haste!" the old man replied. "Gather your men, as many as are rested and have horses. Erkenbrand shall soon be this way; when he has come, ride south, to the fortress of Helm's Deep. Theoden King stands alone, and shall need all your help ere the end."

Even as he spoke, Grimbold felt a change come upon the men, and a new strength in his own limbs. Part of him wondered if this were indeed Saruman, for he heard the things the White Wizard of Isengard could do with his voice. The old man turned about, urged his horse on and shot off like an arrow into the night.

Grimbold siezed his trumpet and blew a single, loud blast upon it, rallying the people about him. He hardly felt the need for it, for the old man's words had put strength and courage back into the hearts of these defenders of the Westfold. He set his eyes southward, towards the valley of Helm, where the storm-clouds gathered.

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><p>It was said that no enemy could take the Hornburg while men defended it. It was long past the hour of midnight, and those in the keep had sealed the postern gate leading to the Deep, for the Deeping Wall had long since been destroyed by the fires of Orthanc. Yet not all had gotten themselves into the safety of the keep before the doors had been closed.<p>

At the mouth of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, Third Marshal Eomer son of Eomund and Gamling the Old were arraying the last defenders of the caves for their final stand. Dunhere and Deorwine, brothers who were riders in Eomer's eored, now erected wooden planks as spikes for a palisade defense. All the while, Gimli the Dwarf stood at the vanguard of the defense. Sleep and weariness pulled at their feet and arms, threatening to drag them all into sleep.

But the enemy would not sleep, the enemy would not rest. The hideous voices of the orcs clamored in their ears like the noise of foul carrion birds, and the cries of "Death to the Straw-heads" echoed the hatred of the Dunlendings for them, and reminded them of their impending doom.

"What think you, Master Dwarf?" Dunhere asked, after placing the last stake firmly into the defensive barricade. "Do you think we have a chance?"

The Dwarf, who had taken a moment of rest, had been leaning on his ax, fingering something that was kept close to his chest. At the voice of the man, he looked up at him, placing both of his hands upon the shaft of his beloved weapon.

"There's good rock in this place," the Dwarf replied. "Dwarves fight best underground, with stone beneath our feet."

"I meant for those of us," Dunhere added. "Who are not stout-hearted Dwarf-kin."

True enough, they were all tired and weary, from fighting for their lives all night. Their armor and clothing had been weighed down by the heavy rainfall, they were soaked and cold to the bone, yet certain death awaited them if their vigilance should slack. And yet if they remained awake, what waited for them then?

Just then, the echoes of shouts and cries from further down the tunnel entrance broke their concentration. Deorwine and Dunhere hefted their shields up from off their backs and onto their arms, while the Dwarf went to see the cause of the commotion. He came back, ax in both hands.

"Ai-oi!" Gimli shouted. "The orcs are coming!"

"Ready, men!" Eomer shouted. "Hold them here, for the King and for Rohan!"

Swords at the ready, the defenders braced themselves as the tide of foes broke upon the barricade. They ran so fast that many were pushed onto the spikes, and many others threw themselves over to attack the defenders.

The sound of axes and swords beating upon Deorwine's shield was like thunder crashing in the ears. The roar of the orcs was hideous and vile, yet it burned with hate and struck fear into their hearts. Yet there was no retreat, for retreat meant death: yet to stand and fight was also death. But this death was the more prefered, for it might give those behind a few moments more to live.

Ax in his hand, Deorwine swung at the nearest creature, one of the hulking black goblin-men in heavy armor, and split its ugly face down the middle. The Dwarf stood in the middle of the passage-way, his stout legs firmly set apart, his ax swinging away. Orcs fell in droves about him. At the barricade, one of the goblin-men siezed Gamling by the throat, but Eomer had his sword in hand and hacked off the beast's arm. At Deorwine's left stood his brother, sword in hand, as he kept his back free and clear from the advancing foes.

It seemed as though the springs of the Isen had let loose a great flood and sea of enemies to bear upon this passage, that their numbers were limitless. Yet the narrow corridor was such that even ten thousand orcs counted for naught. Here the stout-hearted warriors of Rohan fought to the last man, where the cries of death and the screams of the enemy were doubled by reason of the caves.

Inch by inch, the warriors were reclaiming ground. Dunhere and Deorwine stood back-to-back, carving out a path through the enemy. Suddenly, one of the large goblin-men, the berserkers who were the first upon the Deeping Wall, charged into the fray, though several orcs held him back on a chained collar.

"_Khazad!_" shouted Gimli as he charged at the large foe. The monster swung his great sword about, shattering the shield of Theoden that the Dwarf held in his hand. Throwing the shattered pieces aside and taking up the ax in both hands, Gimli charged at the beast and struck him down to one knee. Yet the berserker was quick and fast, and brought his sword down upon the Dwarf's helmet. He fell like a stone.

Deorwine and Dunhere broke ranks and held up their shields to protect the Dwarf, hoping that he was unhurt. He was their strongest warrior, whose feet hadn't faltered, though they fought all through the night. With a grunt, Gimli rose to his feet and threw aside his helm. They saw that his head had been bruised and a small trickle of blood was flowing.

"Master Dwarf!" Deorwine shouted. "Fall back to the caves. We can handle this lot."

"No!" Gimli returned.

"You're wounded!" Dunhere added.

"'Tis but a scratch!" the Dwarf said, pushing himself up and setting angry eyes on the large monster. He charged forward, ax a-swinging, and struck the orc's other knee. It came down, and so did his ax-blade upon it's neck. A clash of metal and yet the beast was still struggling.

Suddenly, there was heard, in echoes coming from outside, the thunder of a great horn.

"Hark!" Dunhere said, a smile on his face. "The Horn of Helm Hammerhand sounds again!"

With a cry, the warriors of Rohan charged into the enemy lines again. Yet this time, the orcs were giving way. Some still fought, but many were dropping their weapons and taking flight. The Dunlendings surrendered, fearing what would happen. Still they fought on, pushing the enemy back inch by inch. Gimli sought in their ranks for the berserker, hoping to repay him for 'scratch' he got.

The hordes were being pushed back at last. With shields on their arms and swords in their hand, the warriors of Rohan made the final push and could at last see light pouring in from the mouth of the cave. Daylight had come at last. Some of the orcs in the army quivered and fell easily, but the goblin-men fought as fiercely in the daylight as in the darkness. Yet something had happened and they were in a general rout.

At last they finally broke their way out of the caves. Eomer gave a mighty shout, and the last of the enemy fled. Dunhere saw the Dwarf strike down the large orc with a blow straight to the head, which sent the goblin-beast down to the ground. As he tried to pry the ax out, the creature gave a shudder and Dunhere drew his sword out, ready to assist the Dwarf if need be.

"No need, laddie," the Dwarf said. "It's already dead." He gave the berserker a kick, and it did not move. Exhausted at last, he sat himself down upon his prey.

"Forty-two," he said. "Though I bet the Elf has passed my count."

"Look!" Dunhere said, pointing towards the huge hole in the Deeping Wall. "Here comes the King!"

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><p><strong>(AN: I've got a <em>lot<em> of characters from Rohan to introduce, so here we get to see a few of them. Two, I guess, I don't _have_ to say too _too_ much about: Guthlaf, Theoden's banner-bearer, and Grimbold.)**

**(What, so far, concerning what you've seen? We'll go back to Arnor in the next chapter, so don't worry. Sorry it took a while to bring out.)**


	4. Arnor: Road to Dunharrow

**(AN: Thank you for waiting, now we return to the story of Arnor's part in the War of the Ring.)**

**(As far as Gondor, this much I can say. In the _Unfinished Tales_, or so I've heard, there was a tale of an uprising of the Black Numenoreans during Eldarion's rule. That, therefore, is one reason why not all of the lords of Gondor have sent aid, because the Moredain - my name for the Black Numenoreans - are at work, even in Gondor. That, and another reason which you shall soon see in this chapter and in the next one.)**

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><p><strong>Road to Dunharrow<strong>

_the 6th of March, 3019 T.A.  
><em>

Dawn was rising in the east as the Grey Company gathered in the hall of the Hornburg. Not but three days ago, there had been a great battle. Erkenbrand, lord of the Westfold, was busy with the repairing of the breaches in the wall. His men and those of the wildmen of Dunland who had surrendered were repairing the damages they had caused. In the hall, however, the Dunedain and the sons of Elrond gathered together.

"I am grateful for this assistance," Aragorn, son of Arathorn, said to Halbarad.

"It is not much, I know," Halbarad replied. "But we moved in haste, and there is ill upon the Shire that merits some of our men still kept on their watch."

Aragorn sighed. "I must be alone." he said. "Let nobody follow me, unless it be Halbarad."

They nodded and Aragorn departed into a separate room of the hall. While they remained, Halbarad rose up from his place and paced about the floor.

"What troubles you?" Elrohir asked him.

"The plight of my people, the Dunedain," he said. "I fear that the end of this age will see the end of the men of the West."

"They have endured much, your people," Elrohir returned. "If I recall, one once said, of them, 'The old that is young does not whither.'"

Halbarad laughed. "Words from a silly old half-ling, who is courteous over-much."

"You should pay heed to those words, Dunadan," Elladan stated. "They ring true in your kin."

Moments of silence passed, and Halbarad looked this way and that, but no sign of Aragorn's return was apparent. He walked down the passage that he saw Aragorn take, up a long flight of stairs to a secret chamber in the heights of the Hornburg. There Aragorn stood, a bundle of cloth in his hands.

"Aragorn," he said. "Something is amiss. I can feel it, I saw it even as I spoke the words of Elrond in your ears."

"Now has come the moment I have secretly dreaded all of my life," Aragorn said. "If what I am about to do is wrong, then many will die and perhaps our doom will come sooner than expected. But I am certain that this is what must be done." He removed the cloth and Halbarad saw what had been wrapped within.

"The _palantiri_," he gasped. "But I thought they were all destroyed."

"Only those from the North," Aragorn said. "The stone of Orthanc remained untouched for many years in the tower, until Saruman turned it toward his own devices. Now it has returned...to it's rightful owner!"

What happened next Halbarad could only guess. He heard the legends of the _palantiri, _which were passed down from the Dunedain, to whom they belonged. It was said that those who used them could communicate with the other stones by their thought. But Halbarad saw only Aragorn, staring into an orb of fire. He drew out his sword, Anduril the Flame of the West, glowing with fire in the morning sky, and presented it before the orb. For a moment, there seemed to be a great struggle between the two, though Halbarad could see no physical indication of the struggle.

At last, Aragorn pulled away and wrapped the orb back into its cloth. But when he turned towards Halbarad, he saw that his face seemed older, lined with care and worry.

"I must go," Aragorn said at last.

"Why?" Halbarad asked. "What have you seen?"

"Sauron brings a fleet of the Corsairs of Umbar up from the south," he replied. "To drive off much of the strength of Gondor from where his hammer will fall the hardest: Minas Tirith. Help un-looked for must be our only hope for the rescue of Gondor, and therefore I must take the road long appointed for me: the Paths of the Dead."

Halbarad's face lost its color, and he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

"I do not ask you to come with me," Aragorn said at last. "Need drives me, therefore..."

"I am your kin, Aragorn," Halbarad said, placing his hand upon Aragorn's shoulder. "Whatever woe may betide us beyond the Haunted Door, I will walk the Paths of the Dead with you, my captain and my king."

Aragorn embraced Halbarad, and the two of them then made their way down into the hall, where the Dunedain and the sons of Elrond were gathered. Legolas and Gimli, however, remained outside, perhaps with the half-ling Meriadoc: they would be told later. These, however, who had traveled so long and so swiftly, must needs be told what doom they faced.

"Brothers," Halbarad said. "We were sent hither at the command of Elrond Peredhil to aid Aragorn in the War against Mordor. Yet now his path leads into the Paths of the Dead." A ripple of murmuring and gasps arose from the group. Only the sons of Elrond were silent. "Our lord says that he will march into the shadow alone, and only our own choice will bind us to follow him. What say you?"

Elladan and Elrohir were the first to rise.

"We do not fear the Dead," Elladan said. "We will come with you."

"And the others?" Aragorn asked, looking at the rest of the Dunedain. They remained grim and ready, their hands upon their swords and their faces set like steel.

"They resolve to follow their king," Halbarad stated.

* * *

><p>The day had passed, and the next day was on its way out as the Grey Company arrived at the mountain stronghold of Dunharrow. A large plateau of rock sat high upon the mountain-side, reached only by a narrow path that wound up the face of the mountain. Long could it be defended against an assault from below, but with the power of Mordor growing, no place was safe, not even Rivendell.<p>

At dusk the company arose, and the people of Edoras looked upon them with fear. For the Dunedain were clad all in gray and they looked more like the spirits of Elves than of men that walked in the waking world. They brought their horses towards the tents at the top of the plateau, where they were greeted by the lady of Rohan, Eowyn daughter of Eomund. Halbarad saw her exchange words with Aragorn, then all was silent and she offered them food and quietly told them that places had been prepared for their rest.

They ate in silence, some fearing that it would be their last meal. Once all was done and the others began to retire, Halbarad found that he could not sleep. The words of one spoken last year, perhaps either Elrond or Gandalf, rung still in his mind: _Maybe the last adventure of the Dunedain_.

As he pondered what these great words of doom could mean, he espied Aragorn speaking with Eowyn. She was concerned that he purposed to take the Paths of the Dead, but then something else arose. She wanted to ride to war, but Aragorn could not give her that honor since she was not under his power and had to wait at her king's command. He then heard their last words.

"I say to you, lady, stay," Aragorn said. "You have no business in the South."

"And neither do the others who go with you!" she said, her voice grave, yet full of sorrow. "They only go because they will not be parted from you...because they _love_ you!"

As her footsteps echoed away, Halbarad deemed that he knew what she meant. And it was sorrowful to his heart, for he knew who had Aragorn's heart and that Eowyn, shield-maiden of Rohan, would never have it. Even more so, he knew that, were the world different and she could, it would bring only sorrow. The people of Rohan were worthy allies, yet they were not of the Dunedain and were short-lived. When she was old and worn, Aragorn would still be in the strength of his long years.

Yet he knew also that the heart was not as easily reconciled as the mind.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Halbarad doesn't have much more screen-time, or page-time, and I had to get out his main drive out before the adventures start to happen.)<strong>

**(Next chapter we get to see the good people of Gondor again! Horay! Hopefully it won't be half-a-month before that happens ;)**


	5. Rohan: Muster of Rohan

**(AN: This chapter was really obligatory, since I've been having extreme apathy and indifference towards several things, one of them being writing.)  
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**(I also noted that I made Dunhere a mere warrior, when he actually has a title. So I'm working that into this story.)  
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* * *

><p><strong>Muster of Rohan<strong>

_the 8th of March, 3019 T.A._

Rohan had survived many wars in its days. War was nothing new to them, though it was looked upon both with hope and despair. Hope that the greatest might win renown to their people, to their lords and to their lands. Yet it was met with despair because war seemed to make its home in the halls of the Eorlingas for far too long. Yea, the people of Rohan indeed wished to be left in peace, keeping what was theirs and serving no foreign lord.

On the foot-hills of the White Mountains, there stood a small cabin, made out of wood gathered from the forests near the foot of the mountains. This house stood on the frontier reaches of a land known as the Eastfold, which was governed by Eomer, son of Eomund and nephew to Theoden King. It had its northern face protected by the river Snowbourne, which had its source deep in the fortress of Dunharrow, and its south-eastern face lay towards Anorien and the land of Gondor.

The house belonged to one of the husbandry of the Eastfold, those who grew their own food and kept their own livestock. The man to whom this house belonged was a very important man in this town, for he kept the watch on the village. Fastred was his name, and he was loyal to his lord and his people. Long had he desired to join his liege-lord Eomer in his _eored_, keeping the Eastfold safe from the treachery of Isengard, yet he was denied that opportunity.

"No, my friend," Eomer had said. "Your time will come, should we fail to keep the traitor Saruman from over-running our lands. Would that we succeed, and you and your family spend the last days of our lord and king in peace."

And so Fastred remained in his town, keeping his fields and looking after his flock, both his stud Felarof, named after the renowned steed of Eorl the Young, and his two young children. Days went on with little or no news of what happened to the lord of the Eastfold after he led his men to the defense of Rohan. And while Fastred waited for news, he spent his days teaching his son how to ride.

"One day," he said proudly, helping his son off Felarof's back. "You will be a rider of Rohan."

"Like you!" the young lad replied.

"Yes, Fimbrand," the father returned with a smile. "Like me."

"What do the riders do, father?" the lad asked. "Do they go off to war?"

"The men of Rohan," Fastred began. "Answer the call of their lord. They take up their arms and mount their horses and ride away to the summons of the king, to defend the life and the honor of Rohan and her allies."

As they were speaking, a lone rider appeared upon the plains. He approached the cabin, and Fastred could see the more of what the rider was. He was clad in the livery of the Royal Guards of the King, bearing a horn upon his thigh.

"Ho, rider!" Fastred announced. "What news from Meduseld?"

"Theoden King has issued the Muster of Rohan," the rider announced. "I am in haste. Take up your horse and spear and make for Dunharrow, where the spear-count shall be held." He delivered a swift kick to the flanks of his mount and sped off down the plains.

Meanwhile, Fastred and his son Fimbrand stood stunned at this news.

"The day has come," he muttered.

* * *

><p>No one spoke while Fastred readied himself for war. He returned to his house, where his wife Frea was busy taking care of their house, and removed his armor from beside his straw bed. He took some strips of dried horse meat, cured and salted to keep well for a long ride on a tight belt, and added these to a small pack along with a small skin of water.<p>

He picked up his long, sturdy spear and then left the house to saddle up his horse Felarof for the journey ahead. As he was readying himself, his family appeared at the front of his door. His wife held in her hands his shield, while his daughter held his helmet and young Fimbrand held his father's sword. Little Fulla gave her father the helmet, which he placed upon his head. The son, the pride of his father, gave him the sword. Lastly, Frea heaved the shield up as high as she could reach, at which he slid his arm through the leather thongs lashed to the rear-side and heaved onto his own arm.

"_Westu_ Fastred _hal,_" Frea said, the only indication of emotion in the depths of her sea-gray eyes. No smile or tears, just a grim realization and reconciliation with what was to come.

Fastred kicked his horse, who gave a loud neighing cry, then sped off north-westward, towards the hills of the White Mountains. Sooner or later, he would find his way towards the sword-meet at Dunharrow, to the Muster of Rohan.

**-{-o-|-O-|-o-}-**

Miles away, the sword-meet at Dunharrow was almost finished. Day after day, men on horses were assembling at the tent-dotted plain below the mountain. Six thousand a-horse all together were mustered, from all corners of the land of Rohan.

While men-at-arms and cavalry were assembling hour by hour, the lords of the Mark were assembled in the tent of Theoden King. Gathered here were Theoden, with his nephew and niece, and Dunhere and Deorwine. With them was a peculiar person, no taller than a child of nine summers, though it claimed it was much older. It walked with bare feet that were covered in hair and smoke floated out of his mouth.

"My lord," Eowyn, the King's niece, said to Dunhere. "Might I have a word with you?"

"My lady, I was about to ask that of yourself," Dunhere stated. "You seem troubled."

She exhaled uneasily. "Only by the tidings of the lord Aragorn," she answered. "He is a great lord, mighty in battle. It is a great loss that we have taken already, ere our march to Gondor."

"I fear for him as well," Dunhere said. "None who have passed the Door beneath the Dwimorberg have ever returned. Not since Brego and Baldor, our lords of old."

She nodded in silence, Dunhere's words confirming her worst fears.

"Please, pardon me, my lady, I did not mean to cause you further grief. What is it you wish to ask of me?"

"You are lord of Harrowdale," she began. "Yet you rode with my brother Eomer, _under_ his command."

"He is a great lord," Dunhere said. "A stern warrior and a captain among captains. I would willingly follow him to whatever end."

She nodded, then turned her attention to what was being spoken between the King, her brother, and the young _Holbytla_. They spoke first of the Paths of the Dead, of which the _Holbytla_ was unfamiliar. Dunhere and Deorwine, meanwhile, were silent as they waited to be called upon by their lords.

Suddenly, one of the King's guards appeared through the entrance of the tent.

"A man is here, lord," he said, "an errand-rider of Gondor. He wishes to come before you at once."

"Let him come!" said the king.

The man who was brought forward was indeed one of the mighty men of Gondor, short and broad-shouldered yet stern like a king. In his hand was something that sent Dunhere's mouth agape and his palms start to sweat.

The Red Arrow.

* * *

><p>Dunhere excused himself from the tent and walked out to the edge of the high burg of Dunharrow. He looked out upon the land of Rohan, as the sun was going down far beyond the Westfold. The sounds of those preparing below was still heard, though he knew that the time was soon coming. The Red Arrow meant that Gondor was requesting aid, and whatever strength was prepared would be riding off to war in the morning.<p>

"Brother," Deorwine addressed from behind.

"I am in deep concern," Dunhere replied.

"Because of what happened at Edoras?" Deorwine asked.

"Please, darken not this eve with the memory of _that_," Dunhere sighed. "Would that we had gone with Eomer to Isengard."

"You are a lord of the Mark, my brother," Deorwine said. "You are not at liberty to go or do as you will. The King and lord Eomer ordered us to Edoras to ensure no harm came to the people while he was in Isengard. Besides, I heard they saw one as well."

"Fell things upon the air," Dunhere stated. "Dark wights in the mountain-halls, and great warriors ride off to their doom. What have we come to?"

"Dark times, my lords," it was the lord Eomer who spoke to them. "But our duty lies before us, and the men of Rohan have always honored their oaths to Mundburg."

"And we shall honor them even now," Deorwine said. "We stayed at your side at Helm's Deep, we're with you to the end, my lord."

Eomer nodded, though his eyes were now trained on the east. In the gathering gloom of the late evening, as the sun was disappearing behind the northern marches of the White Mountains, a small black smudge was glowering in the eastern sky. Within its depths, not even a hint of light remained, not even the wightish glimmer of light glowing upon the clouds from the westering sun.

"What dwimmer-craft is this?" Eomer whispered to himself.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Of course, we know that that black smudge is the forefront of the "Dawnless Day".)<strong>

**(I messed up with Dunhere in the last Rohan chapter, so I sort of fixed that in this chapter. More of the Rohirrim heroes will be mentioned in the next chapter, so don't worry.)  
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	6. Gondor: A Deep Breath

**(AN: _Remember the Fallen_ is given new life! For this chapter, I'm gonna have to do a lot of work, as far as a good story about brave and honorable vassals serving their liege-lord and getting that across. As for the spelling and grammatical errors, once again, I encourage you to point out my mistakes. Professor Tolkien would have, so I ask you to do as well. Spell-check is not good, especially when I'm dealing with so many names that are not "proper" English.)  
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**(With that ado, here we go!)  
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* * *

><p><strong>A Deep Breath<strong>

_the 9th of March, 3019 T.A._

At the vanguard of a great company of men marched Forlong, lord of Lossarnach. Behind marched all those willing to come to the aid of Minas Tirith. Their numbers were too few, this he knew of a certainty. Too many had either refused to come, as did the lord of Lamedon, or could not afford to send a large force. Already there was news from Belfalas that the Corsairs of Umbar were sailing up the sea. Too few there would be to drive off the forces of Mordor should there be more than one front, as Forlong and Imrahil of Dol Amroth believed.

At least two days after the arrival in Minas Tirith, once the men were sent to the barracks in the first level of the city, the lords were summoned to the seventh level, where they would meet with the lord and steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion. There was little debate in the assembly, for none could stand long the stern, piercing gaze of the steward of Gondor: none, perhaps, save for the lord Faramir, captain of Gondor, and Imrahil of Dol Amroth, or Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer, clad now all in white. First, after welcoming his guests, Denethor inquired of the lords of the southern fiefs regarding what had happened and why their mustering force had been so small.

"Many of the lords are afraid," Forlong said. "The Corsairs, the foul folk of Umbar, have blockaded the coast. An attack from the sea is imminent."

"So is an assault by land, since the fall of Osgiliath," Denethor replied.

"Nevertheless," Imrahil added. "We could not leave our lands undefended. Ill would it be for us to come to the aid of our sister city, Minas Tirith, only to return home to a ruin of desolation."

"Even the hill country," Hirluin said. "Is not safe. The river gives passage to our foes, and only three hundred men could I spare to the succor of this city. My lords speak truth: we cannot make an assault upon the Enemy, not while the Corsairs threaten our shores."

"Mithrandir," Forlong said, turning to the old man. "It has been rumored in the city that the Red Arrow was sent, and we saw the beacons lit. Is there any hope that Theoden will honor is oath? Were the Rohirrim to arrive, we might be able to bestir the enemy and rally our forces."

"I cannot say," the old man shook his head. "Theoden has just recently come from great battles himself."

"But, my lord," Hirluin added. "Prudence advises that we man the walls and make provisions for a siege."

"You speak wisdom, young man," Denethor said. "Never have these walls fallen before an enemy assault. Yet I do not believe we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses. The Rammas Echor was made in great labor, and the Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the river. He cannot assail from the north, by way of Cair Andros, because of the marshes, or south because of the breadth of Anduin. No, his attack will come from Osgiliath, as before, when Boromir denied him passage."

"That was but a trial," Faramir spoke. "Today, I fear that we may make the enemy pay ten times for the passage of the river and yet rue the exchange, for he can afford to lose a host more so than we a company. And a retreat would be perilous."

"And what of Cair Andros?" asked Imrahil. "That too must be held if Osgiliath is to be defended. Let us not forget the danger on our left. The Rohirrim may come and they may not, but Faramir has told us of great strength drawing nigh the Black Gate. More than one host may issue from it and strike from more than one passage."

"Much must be risked in war," Denethor retorted. "Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will _not_ yield the river and the Pelennor unfought..." Then saw they that he looked scathingly upon his son Faramir. "Not if there is a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will."

All were silent. They knew that Boromir was loved greatly by the people of Gondor and by the steward, and now he was gone. Rumor had it that he was dead, but no word had reached the outlying fiefs as of yet. As for Faramir, he had endured the greatest toil as the captain of Gondor and seemed ever in the disfavor of his lord and father.

"I do not oppose your will, sire," Faramir said at last. "Since you were robbed of Boromir...I will go and do what I can in his stead, if you command it."

"I do so." said Denethor.

"Then farewell," Faramir said, bowing before his father. "But if I should return, think better of me."

"That depends on the manner of your return." said Denethor.

All were silent as Faramir's footsteps echoed out of the hall, the great doors creaked open and were shut at last. Once he was gone, the old man stood to his feet, taking up his staff and walked after him. One by one, they dispersed to their barracks, eager to be about their duties and forget what had happened.

"He pushes him too hard," Hirluin said, once they were out of the citadel and on their way down the levels of the city.

"Aye," Forlong said. "But we have our duty, and that is to defend this city."

"I fear what will happen," Hirluin stated, as they came down to the sixth level and looked out over the plain. "The enemy gathers before us, and yet there is fear above our heads. Can you not feel it, even upon the day of the fall of Osgiliath? Those winged terrors fill the sky with their endless cries!"

"Yes, I feel it, too," Forlong said, trying in vain to assuage Hirluin's fear. "But take heart, my friend, you shall return home."

"I hope so," the young man said. "My lady and our firstborn await me in Pinnath Gelin."

"All my sons are old enough to have sons of their own!" laughed Forlong. And for a moment, the fear of the encroaching shadow from the Dark Land of the East was assuaged, but the moment passed and once again it appeared like a great storm, looming, stretching out to smother the White City.

"And they must have a safe world in which to blossom," the old man added. "Come, let us haste to our barracks."

Hirluin followed Forlong down the levels of the city. At last they came to the barracks and began, in such skill as they had, to muster their troops behind the walls and prepare for the siege. The storm was about to break, and they had to prepare or else be caught unawares and destroyed by it.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Kind of short, but intentionally so. I had originally wanted Hirluin to have a romantic interest with a woman of Minas Tirith, but then reminded myself that that is not the point of this story, love and romanticism, but the valor and honor of our heroes. So I cut it out. Yay me for making the smart decision!)<strong>

**(I suddenly got loads of inspiration, so I hope to continue this story very shortly. Don't forget to review.)  
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	7. Arnor: Paths of the Dead

**(AN: There is some description in the book, and I thought I would delve a bit deeper into that, and so here we are, back at Dunharrow, for the fulfillment of the words of Mardil the Seer. Also, I've cut out Legolas' "explanation", since the movie made a great error in calling Isildur "the last King of Gondor".)  
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**(Thank you once again for your reviews! They are most welcome, even if they do point out my grammatical errors. I will endeavor to fix them. As for Halbarad, he is only human and, while of the race of Numenor, is not as mighty or stalwart as Aragorn. [Keep in mind that many of the race of Numenor did fall into darkness]. So I guess that, for the sake of this story, while Halbarad does begrudge the doom of man slightly in his heart, he fights on in the hope [no matter how faint] that all will be well once the King returns. Hope that cleared it up. Remember, in times of darkness, rare is the one who can see beyond the shadow. Also, as far as Arwen's message, that's gonna be addressed though I had originally thought that she wouldn't use endearing words to Halbarad, which is probably why I changed it.)  
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* * *

><p><strong>Paths of the Dead<strong>

_Over the land there lies a long shadow  
>Westward reaching wings of darkness<br>The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings  
>Doom approaches. The Dead awaken<em>

_For the hour is come for the Oathbreakers  
>At the Stone of Erech they shall stand again<br>And hear there a horn in the hills ringing  
>Whose horn shall it be? Who shall call them<br>_

_From the grey twilight, the Forgotten People?  
>The heir of him to whom the oath they swore<br>From the North shall he come, need shall drive him  
>He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead<em>

The words of Malbeth rang in Halbarad's ears as he galloped alongside Aragorn into the grey valley, beyond Dunharrow. All they passed by as they left Edoras ran in terror at their sight, while others whispered that they were the ghosts of the dead themselves, elvish wights they called them. But it was not so: clad they were in Elvish gray, and three of that race marched with them, but they were men, yet of stout-hearts and fey countenances. But he whose face was the most grave was Aragorn. Upon him now lay the seemingly insurmountable task of venturing beyond the Haunted Door.

"My blood runs chill," Gimli the Dwarf whispered, as they came upon a giant stone, old and weathered, standing solitary like a finger of warning. The others were silent and the horses would not pass unless the riders dismounted and led them about.

At last they came to the door in the side of the mountain, old and worn, with marks carved upon its wide arch. Even though it was old and most of the figures were too dim to read, one could faintly discern the sign of the Eye at the center of the lintel of the arch. For these folk of the gray twilight worshiped Sauron in the Dark Years and would not go to war neither against him nor for him, for their oath with Isildur held sway.

"Light the torches," Aragorn ordered. He had brought torches from Dunharrow and now they would see use in the darkness before them. While they were thus lighting, Elladan spoke.

"What legends do the Men of the Mark speak of this place?" he asked, gesturing to the Door.

"They do not speak of it," Aragorn, who had rode in Rohan in the days of Theoden's father, Thengel King, answered. "None in the Mark have dared to venture beyond the Door since Baldor son of Brego did and was never seen again. It is said that when the Rohirrim came out of the North and passed up the Snowbourn, seeking strong places of refuge, Brego and his son Baldor came up this way. On the threshold of this door they saw an old man, aged beyond guessing, sitting down: withered as old stone, unmoving and unspeaking. But as they tried to enter, he spoke these words:

"'The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the time comes. The way is shut.' No more they got out of him, for in that selfsame hour he died."

There was silence once more upon the Grey Company, save for a howl of wind in the hills and the rustling of the dead trees. There was not a heart among them that did not quail, save only for Legolas or the sons of Elrond, Elf-kind for whom the shades of Men have no terror.

"This is an evil door," Halbarad said, gazing fearfully at the Door. "And my death lies beyond it." He turned back to Aragorn. "Nonetheless, I will dare to pass it. But no horse will enter."

"But we must go in," Aragorn replied. "And therefore the horses must go too. If ever we come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond and every hour lost hastens the triumph of Sauron. Follow me!"

With Anduril, the Flame of the West, in one hand, and a torch in the other, Aragorn entered the dark door. Such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dunedain and their horses followed him. After him came Halbarad and Elrohir, followed by the Dunedain. As they passed through, Legolas spoke words in the Elvish tongue to Arod, the horse of Rohan, who finally relented before the terror of the horse. Then, with Elladan at the end, they too passed into the gloom. At last, after a long struggle with his fear, Gimli the Dwarf plunged in, last of all of them.

* * *

><p>Long and dark was the passage under the mountain. Sometimes wider and sometimes narrower, the stone passage carved through the bowels of the Ered Nimrais, deep into the forgotten realm. There was no resistance, yet a growling fear was upon the Grey Company. Behind a host unseen passed through the darkness, and they knew of a certainty that there would be no going back.<p>

At last they came to a place where the road was wide, where the walls vanished into the gloom. For a while they halted, and Aragorn turned to the left, where something was glimmering. He handed his torch to Elladan while Halbarad walked behind him, peering to see what it was that had drawn his attention. Against the wall, at the far left of the great cavernous room, lay the bones of a mighty man. He had been clad in mail, and still his harness lay there whole; for the cavern's air was as dry as dust, and his hauberk was gilded. His belt was of gold and garnets, and rich with gold was the helm upon his bony head face downward on the floor. Before him stood a stony door closed fast: his finger-bones were still clawing at the cracks. A notched and broken sword lay by him, as if he had hewn at the rock in his last despair.

"Surely here lies Baldor, son of Brego," Halbarad whispered. "He who passed through the Door and never returned to Meduseld."

"Aye," Aragorn said. "Hither shall the flowers of simbelmyne come never unto the world's end. Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door that he could not unlock. Wither does it lead? Why would he pass?"

For a moment, fear gripped Halbarad once again. What would happen if the unseen host attacked them, should Aragorn seek the secrets that had been the death of the King of the Mark? Not knowing what it was would almost be as horrible as knowing.

"None shall ever know," Aragorn said at last, rising from where he knelt at the side of the fallen king. Then turned he to the whispering darkness behind. "For that is not my errand! Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

There was no answer, unless it were an utter silence more dreadful than the whispers. Suddenly a chill blast blew upon them, snuffing out their torches. On they went, yet the gloom was so powerful that they could scarce see anything and ever and anon they felt as though things groped at them from out of the darkness. As they were mounting, Halbarad turned back and heard words that chilled his heart.

"I see shapes of Men and of horses," Legolas the Elf said. "And pale banners like shreds of cloud and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following."

"They have been summoned." Elladan added.

* * *

><p>At last, however, they came again out of the deepest, darkest places of the Haunted Mountain and once again into the land of the living. It was dark, for the night was upon them as they entered the vale of Erech. Long had the people of Arnor been sundered from their southern kin, yet Halbarad knew the stories of this place. Here the Exiles had landed, here Isildur, Anarion and Elendil founded the kingdoms in exile, and here the tryst was made with the Forgotten People. Here it would be where they would be called forth from the grey twilight to fulfill their oath.<p>

The vale of Erech was covered in shadow, and a single black stone sat there, half sunk into the ground. Here they dismounted, and surrounded the stone. Some of them gripped their weapons, for they could sense the unseen host gathered all about them. Aragorn dismounted, stood by the stone and looked out into the darkness.

"Oathbreakers," he cried with a loud voice. "Why have ye come?" And a voice was heard out of the night that answered him, as if from far away.

"To fulfil our oath and have peace."

"The hour is come at last," Aragorn said. "I go now to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled and yet shall have peace and depart forever: for I am Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor!"

He turned to Halbarad, who removed the gift of Arwen Undomiel and unfurled it before them into the darkness. Halbarad's heart lifted up from out of the darkness, to see Aragorn coming into his own. Though he knew not if he would live to see his lord become truly king, he was already seeing it happen. For a moment, he feared not the darkness or the host beyond: the King had returned and they would not harm him.

All night they camped at the Stone and in the morning, Aragorn led them upon the journey of greatest haste and weariness that any among them had known, save he alone; only his will held them to go on. No other mortal men could have endured it, none but the Dunedain of the North and with them Gimli the Dwarf and Legolas of the Elves. Their march led them from the vale of Erech down to Lamedon, and the Shadow Host pressed behind them and fear went on before them. On into the darkness of the next night they marched, and all fled before them.

The next day there was no dawn, and the Grey Company passed on into the darkness of the storm of Mordor and were lost to mortal sight; but the Dead followed them.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Man I wish I could have done more character development for Halbarad, but there will definitely be more. I wanted to do only nine chapters [three for each side], but I guess I could do twelve and then an epilogue. What do you think was behind the door that Baldor could not pass? Or perhaps we should not know, as that would destroy the mystery of it.)<strong>

**(We'll definitely press on, but the next chapter is gonna be good!)  
><strong>


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